


call you darling, hold you tight

by mellodrama



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Coming Out, Drug Addiction, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellodrama/pseuds/mellodrama
Summary: “I should go get my…” she trails off, half-heartedly motioning towards the bag. She’s too caught up in trying to tear her eyes away from Maya to focus on anything else.“Yeah, I’m at work, so," Maya starts, before dissolving into quiet, shy laughter.
Relationships: Lola Lecomte/Maya Etienne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey ladies do you ever jump over a supermarket counter because your gf uses the loudspeaker to tell the whole store you need to kiss her asap?? i loved that clip so much but also wanted to see mayla actually talk about their relationship, so here's this! warning for discussions of addiction, alcoholism, parental deaths, abuse and hospitalization
> 
> title from the poem "saying your names" by richard siken
> 
> you can see the insta story and post referenced in this fic [here](https://skamfrtranslated.tumblr.com/post/619984129521598464/lolas-ig-story-june-3) and [here](https://skamfrtranslated.tumblr.com/post/619984043330732032/lolas-ig-post-june-3)
> 
> i'll post the second chapter soon!

* * *

“They laugh until laughing makes them kiss.  
They kiss until kissing makes them laugh."  
  
\- Sarah Ruhl, _The Clean House_

As soon as they start to kiss, Lola swears the entire universe slows down.

She’s distantly aware of outside movement and sound, but all of it seems fuzzy, muted. It’s as if everyone and everything else that’s ever existed has merely been a distraction in the lead up to what’s standing right in front of her, where she’s cradling Maya in her hands.

That’s why she opens her eyes. Now that she has this again, she endeavours to savour every single moment: the flutter of Maya’s eyelashes, the gentle bump of their chins, or – possibly her favorite, but she’ll need to conduct more research – the way they reluctantly pull away every few seconds because neither of them can stop smiling.

(Smiling, as it turns out, isn’t conducive to kissing. They’ll work on it.)

The last one is an exciting revelation. She wasn’t lying when she said her old modus operandi consisted entirely of drunk hook-ups with complete strangers before scurrying away the next morning, planning to avoid said person for the rest of her life. It was a tried and trusted method, and whilst it never actually helped to fill that permeating emptiness inside of her, it was a familiar routine amongst all the chaos, and one she held onto like a lifeboat.

But this? Practically tasting the happiness on both of their lips? Being able to tangle her fingers in Maya’s hair and feel Maya respond with a similar enthusiasm?

It’s everything she never thought she’d get to have, which is precisely why she’s decided here and now that she’ll never let go again.

Of course, something then happens to cause exactly that.

A metallic _thunk_ reverberates from nearby, and they both jump back in surprise. Almost immediately, the bubble they’ve crafted for themselves pops, and the world left behind returns in a dizzying rush of fluorescent lights and electronic beeps. (Not to mention the absolutely _terrible_ song playing from the store’s speakers; the music swelling in her head when she ran back to leap over the counter was _much_ more cinematic.)

When Lola’s finished blinking herself out the kiss-induced stupor, she finds the source of the disruption: a large can of peaches has rolled down the conveyor belt and smacked into the cash register. Maya scrambles to grab it but quickly pauses, torn between scanning it or giving it back to –

(The thing about making out with your girlfriend in the middle of a supermarket is that it doesn’t matter how cinematic you feel: you’re still literally making out in the middle of a _supermarket_.)

The old lady standing behind Lola in the queue is, shockingly, not glaring daggers at either of them. Even more surprisingly is that her expression seems to fall somewhere closer to happy than angry, albeit a little bittersweet. Lola’s confusion must be obvious because the woman chuckles when stretching over to steal her peaches back.

“I was young once. I know how it is,” she smiles again before busying herself with the handful of groceries on the belt, pointedly looking away.

Gradually starting to learn that you can’t always look a gift horse in the mouth, Lola silently thanks the woman before turning back to Maya, who has started to tap her nails against the counter. A nervous tic maybe, or simply impatience. Lola isn’t yet fluent in the nuances of Maya’s body language, but she wants to be.

So she reaches a hand out, waits for Maya to meet her halfway and intertwine their fingers. When she does, Lola feels golden. They’ve never really done this before: they’ve hugged, kissed, slept together, and broken up – pretty much the entire relationship cycle – but somehow avoided ever holding hands.

There was some semblance of it during their first and only official date, which took time to even get started. After she and Maya looked over those photos, Basile had burst back into the living room, gesturing wildly with two spoons. He wouldn’t let them leave without taste-testing what he’d cooked, and when Maya politely declined on the basis of her vegetarianism, he’d scampered back into the kitchen, insistent on whipping up something she could try. Lola had mostly stayed silent, amused at the scene playing in front of her, and a little bit enamoured too: she was watching on, but it didn’t feel like she was a spectator in her own life with no control as to what happened. She was present, this was real, and it felt good.

When she caught onto the distress signals Maya was frantically sending, she finally stepped in and gripped Basile’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of dinners together in the future.”

She mostly said it to get him to stop before he burned the kitchen down, but the words nonetheless spurred a surge of warmth across her sternum as soon as she said them. The mere thought of the possibility of more nights like this with Daphné and Basile and Maya, La Mif and Eliott and Lucas, and _hell_ , maybe even the rest of their gang too – it was indescribable.

Afterwards, in the elevator, they’d both reached for the button at the same time, allowing their fingers to brush. With anyone else, Lola might have automatically pulled back, but something intrinsic caused her to linger, and their eyes met. It continued like that for the rest of the date: a bite to eat followed by an evening stroll with gelato in the park, watching the sunset together. Maya rubbing her thumb over Lola’s palm whilst they studied the menu; Lola linking their pinkies on the park bench as they stared up at the sky, blue fading into streaky pink before a speckle of stars.

But never actually holding hands. Retroactively she’s not sure why, but she supposes it doesn’t really matter now: this isn’t just her second chance, it’s _theirs_ too, and they’ve got all the time in the world stretched out before them to tick things off the relationship bucket list.

(And maybe they can invent some of their own as well – abusing your access to a supermarket’s loudspeaker system to publicly announce that your girlfriend needs to immediately kiss you is a fantastic start, Lola believes.)

“Hey.”

Tugged out of those thoughts by the girlfriend in question, Lola looks down again to see Maya gazing right back up, smiling expectantly.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“You said that already.”

When Maya laughs, it’s sparkling and bright. “No, I said _hey._ ”

Lola quickly forces the smile off her face. Once Maya starts to look concerned at the abrupt change in mood, she leans in to cup her cheeks, brings their foreheads together. This close, every detail of Maya’s face is clear – especially the extra dots of eyeliner, which Lola feels a sudden desire to run over with her thumb and smudge. It’s a gentle territorial urge to mark Maya in some way, mess up her makeup and then be the one to fix it.

Instead, she makes sure they’re maintaining eye contact and, in her best dramatic voice, whispers: “Hey.”

Maya rolls her eyes, but Lola can see the softness there. She wants to see more, and brushes a stray lock of hair behind Maya’s ear. “What time does your shift end?”

“Seven. I’ll be home by eight.”

“I’ll be free by eight.”

“Interesting coincidence,” Maya furrows her brow.

Lola taps her chin. “Hmm. Absolutely.” Before she can jokingly ask Maya if she wants to meet up next week, another thought strikes, and she looks over at the bag she’d dropped earlier, the groceries Daphné had requested strewn across the ground. She still needs to come up with a reason as to why the pasta ingredients have been graffitied.

“I should go get my…” she trails off, half-heartedly motioning towards the bag. She’s too caught up in trying to tear her eyes away from Maya to focus on anything else.

“Yeah, I’m – I’m at work, so.” Maya starts, before dissolving into quiet, almost shy laughter.

Lola can’t help it. She leans in again. It’s only meant to be a quick peck, but her hands instantly gravitate towards the back of Maya’s neck, and when their foreheads meet, she knows they’ll be lingering for a while, other customers be dammed.

“I know.”

Whether the words are referring to the fact that yeah, they’re literally doing this in the middle of Maya’s workplace, or something else – an _I know this is probably not what you imagined, I know this is kinda insane, I know we still have a lot to talk about_ – Lola isn’t even sure herself. It just tumbles out of her mouth, an easy reassurance. Everything with Maya feels that way: simultaneously simple and difficult. Simple, because the feelings behind the words are as natural and true as breathing; she _loves_ Maya and wants this second chance so badly her entire body thrums with it. Just the thought of having her there on the other side of what the next few months will bring makes Lola feel even better about her decision to stay at the hospital again. She knows that professional help was the right choice, the logical next step in healing, but this nonetheless aids in cushioning some of her fear.

But the words themselves are hard, too, because she’s never been in a real relationship before, yet she already knows she wants this to be a serious, long-term thing. And she knows achieving _that_ will require conversations of the awkward-at-best, exhausting-at-worst variety.

It’s slightly scary, but she finds herself wanting to put the effort in. They both deserve it.

Lola decides to take advantage of the fact that Maya's still staring at the dropped bag. When she steals another kiss, Maya gasps in surprise, and soon they’re both laughing into each other’s mouths.

The world melts away again, almost like it was never there at all.

* * *

Two weeks ago, she’d left the supermarket under vastly different circumstances.

She’d remained standing there for a while after Maya had stalked off to meet Char’s friends. Rejection still stings whether it’s the first or fiftieth time, and some petty, cruel part of her had therefore secretly hoped that Char’s group was filled with massive freaks, or fellow snobby assholes, ones whose politics Maya would feel enraged by but would otherwise be too polite to sneak away from.

But then she thought about the slight upwards curve of Maya’s mouth when offered a platonic olive branch, and forced herself to swallow the bitterness down. It’s why she hadn’t immediately scurried home: she needed time to convince the mean, ugly temptations that this was okay, that Maya was allowed – and deserved – to find happiness with whomever she desired. In any other situation, Lola would have bolted away to mope, but the rational side of her brain knew that she needed to cleanse herself of everything before the movie shoot on Friday. Eliott deserved that at least, given that he certainly wasn’t going to receive an Oscar-winning performance from her.

So she’d spent the entire bus ride back to the apartment allowing herself to grieve, and grieving meant almost draining her phone battery as she scoured the # _purple_ and # _sad_ _sunset_ tags on Pinterest. It began as a private mourning, just a way to visually reminisce about the _what ifs_ and _what might have beens_ before finally letting go, but then she’d made the mistake of opening Instagram.

A fresh wave of self-hatred had rolled over her: maybe if she were an approachable, social person who followed more than five people, then the app’s stupid non-linear algorithm wouldn’t fuck her over and show nothing but the selfie Maya posted a week ago.

It’d been an overwhelming sight at the time, seared like salt in the wound, and she’d ended up giving in to the rising resentment in her gut. She selected Prince’s _Purple Rain_ for her story, a purple-tinted sunset for her page. No captions necessary. She imagined Maya discreetly checking Insta during the gathering, seeking a break from Char’s gang of weirdos, and seeing Lola’s not-so-subtle message.

Some part of her hoped the guilt, if it existed, would burn. Another part – the phantasmic, childlike one that grew up watching Hollywood romances with Daphné – wondered if Maya would escape from the party and run through the streets in a desperate, love-crazed bid to find Lola.

(Mostly she had just wanted all of it – her feelings for Maya, her beef with Tiff, the brittle truce between she and her father – to be over. Prince was right: _I never meant to cause you any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain_.)

The song hits different now. Everything does. Her phone buzzes in her hand, a new notification looming on the screen. She used to dread those vibrations; all they ever represented was an appointment with her therapist or the drug clinic, or worse, increasingly concerned texts from Daphné serving as a reminder of how fractured their relationship had become.

But not anymore. She taps her password in, indulging in the warmth that comes from simple things like texting with someone who cares about you. Literal digital evidence of love, affection, effort.

She’s never wanted – needed – a bus trip to end faster.

* * *

**From:** Maya 🐳 **[5:23pm]**

 _In staff breakroom right now, my coworkers hate me !!_ 🥴😝 **  
  
**

**To:** Maya **🐳 [5:23pm]**

_well how often do you do this kinda thing??_

**From:** Maya **🐳 [5:24pm]**

_Not often. Only with girls I really like…_

**From:** Maya **🐳 [5:24pm]**

 _…And you_ 💜

**To:** Maya **🐳 [5:26pm]**

 _you don’t like me?_ **😲**

**From:** Maya **🐳 [5:27pm]**

_See you soon, dummy. Miss you already xx_

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maya opens the door approximately two seconds after she rings the buzzer. Lola doesn’t comment on it. She knows she’s just as eager, and from the way Maya keeps tugging at her sleeves, it’s obvious they’re both running on adrenalized nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i'd post the second chapter soon and then never did, but life has been hectic these past few months, as you all know. so here’s almost 10,000 words to make up for it. the Mayla Talk™ actually happens in this chapter, as does some lecomte family stuff. i hope i did it justice. it's very long because i simply don't know how to shut up ❤️
> 
> i think the tags cover everything. nothing is described in graphic detail. because we're in lola's pov, the general vibe of some lines could come off as victim-blaming. please know this doesn’t reflect my own views, i merely wanted to stay true to character, and in my interpretation, she often comes across as very angry at herself. if you need any specific details or further warnings, please lmk! (and please read the end note.)
> 
> also: i listened to the songs "moon river" by frank ocean and “invisible string” by taylor swift whilst writing much of this, if you wanted a soundtrack for this fic

* * *

“I want to get more familiar with you. I love you. You arouse in me such a mixture of feelings.

I don't know how to approach you. Only come to me: get closer and closer to me.

It will be beautiful, I promise you.”

\- Henry Miller, _The Rosy Crucifixion_

Any hopes Lola has of Daphné not seeing what she’d scribbled on tonight’s dinner are dashed as soon as she walks through the door.

Her sister immediately snatches the bag and flounces down the hallway, mumbling something like _finally getting started_ and _only person here who understands time_. And it’s not like Lola, as the third best – and therefore worst – cook in the Lecomte family, was planning to actually _make_ the meal, but she was counting on at least sneaking into the kitchen beforehand to prepare the ingredients. That’d allow her the opportunity to dispose of any evidence of the supermarket saga, because not only is it humiliating to remember that she mixed up the order of her grand romantic gesture, she also knows the sight of random words on places they shouldn’t be is likely to send Daphné’s exam-fried brain spiraling.

(She was supposed to have invented an excuse for the food vandalism on the bus, but said bus ride was spent texting Maya, followed by a period of dramatically staring out the window after her girlfriend was forced to return to actually serving customers.)

Trailing after Daphné, she spends the entire walk to the kitchen unsuccessfully attempting to loop a hand through the bag’s handle and pull it back – she’s already smiling, mentally rehearsing her offer to help, and up until the point where Thierry lumbers out of his room, she thinks it might work; Daphné looks tired enough to accept whatever kindness Lola might throw her way, suspicious as it may be.

Her father, however, has a habit of turning up when he’s least expected to, which is also usually when she wants to see him the least.

Lola clenches her jaw. She’s spent the past week tip-toeing a tightrope of emotions regarding their relationship: anger, pain, and guilt on one side; gratitude, sympathy, and love on the other. When she lies in bed at night unable to sleep, she imagines herself as a pendulum, condemned to forever swing between two opposites. It’s an exhausting thought, one which ends up helping her to drift off, and although she seems to wake up perpetually tired, she’s still getting more sleep than ever before. Tiny silver linings and all that, she supposes.

Whilst she’s a little apprehensive about the hospital, it’s pure relief knowing that she’ll be able to unburden herself there. The fact that she still hasn’t told Daphné about Thierry’s slap sits heavy on her shoulders, a complex weight. She feels like he isn’t trying as hard as he could, or should – he hasn’t even _apologized_ yet – and on days where the apartment is unbearably quiet, the silence suffocating, she just wants to spit it out and break the peace.

But she also doesn’t want to ruin his and Daphné’s relationship, not when things with her eating disorder appear to be somewhat settling. She’s worried the news might trigger a relapse, and Lola doesn’t know what she’ll do if she simultaneously loses the only family members she has left.

So she stays quiet as he hums a tune she vaguely recognizes from childhood. With disheveled hair and a stained shirt, it’s obvious that he’s been napping before his upcoming shift, but there’s a bounce in his step too: he’s in a good mood, and she can’t ask for much more than that.

Not a moment later, he scoops the bag out of Daphné’s hands and begins emptying it. When he ignores the packet of markers, Lola wonders if she should maybe consider it a sign from the universe, and slowly retreats from the table. Right as she’s rounded the corner, freedom via her bedroom door merely seconds away, she hears Thierry grunt in equal parts amusement and confusion.

“Why are the chickpeas asking for our forgiveness?”

She winces. Daphné’s already muttering, no doubt inspecting the rest of the bag. By the time Lola shuffles back into the kitchen, two pairs of eyes are trained exclusively on her.

Daphné holds up the uncooked pasta and apple. If there was an award for being accusatory in a gentle, affectionate way, Lola’s sure her sister would win it tonight. “Do these have anything to do with Maya?”

She schools her features into something she hopes resembles neutral. “Perhaps.”

Based on the way Daphné laughs before moving to take over cooking duties, Lola assumes her body’s automatic reaction to hearing Maya’s name ruined any attempt at neutrality.

Her answer nonetheless satisfies Daphné, who starts fiddling with the stove, but Thierry’s still stuck on the apple. When he notices Lola lingering awkwardly in the doorframe, he shoots her a soft smile.

“Who’s Maya?”

It’s the kind of question that implies the asker already knows the answer, and given how kind his tone is, Lola guesses he’s doing it more for her benefit than his.

But she’s never come out to him before – or to any parental figure, really. Her mother died before their relationship improved enough for it to occur, and it was always a presumed thing with Daphné. Ranting about whatever intense platonic break-up she was going through, commenting on how pretty Mel B was during their Spice Girls dance parties. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been so surprised at how quick her sister was at picking up on something between her and Maya.

So. “She’s my girlfriend.”

She knows he isn’t homophobic. She’s not worried about being disowned or anything like that, but she steels herself anyways, if only to make it absolutely clear that she refuses to be ashamed of who she is and who she’s dating.

When he reaches out to pull her into a hug, she offers no resistance. He wraps his arms around her, firm but not uncomfortably tight, and it’s easy to relax into the embrace.

(Again: _complicated emotions_. Maybe the hospital’s therapist will be able to help her process why she’s not necessarily afraid of getting hit again and that some of his touch _does_ feel good, but why she also doesn’t really want to spend time around him either.)

The sharp clatter of a plate against the counter echoes throughout the room, and she happily uses it as an excuse to disentangle. Daphné begins collecting cutlery, and Lola moves to join her. They work silently, the stove’s fan and bubbling water providing a homely soundtrack, and when everyone starts plating up, Lola figures it’s as good of a time as any. “I’m going over to Maya’s apartment tonight.”

She’s not asking for permission, not from her sister and certainly not from her father, but she’s careful to frame it closer to a question than a demand.

Both Daphné and Thierry look up in interest. The steam from the spaghetti makes it hard to decipher their expressions, so Lola busies herself with her own plate. It’s not cowardice; they just don’t need to see how incapable she is of _not_ smiling when thinking about Maya, even when she tries really hard – which she certainly isn’t right now.

“Will you be sleeping there?”

“If she wants me to.”

Daphné passes her a small bowl of grated cheese. “I’m staying up to FaceTime the girls, text me if you’re coming back.” Lola nods. As does Thierry, who has a strange look on his face. If Lola were to examine it, she’d guess it was pride with a flash of guilt mixed in. But if she were to do that, then she’d also have to think about _why_ he feels that way again, and she’s done enough of that here. It’ll probably come up with Maya tonight, it undoubtedly will next week, so for now, she just wants this: light conversation and a nice, hot meal with her family. Nothing more, nothing less.

Thierry leaves not long after, squeezing her shoulder as he walks by. As soon as they hear the click of the lock, Daphné drops her fork and pounces.

“Tell me everything _now!_ ”

* * *

Maya opens the door approximately two seconds after she rings the buzzer. Lola doesn’t comment on it. She knows she’s just as eager, and from the way Maya keeps tugging at her sleeves, it’s obvious they’re both running on adrenalized nerves.

The apartment’s exactly as she remembers it: small but spacious, open but filled. A cursory glance reveals that Maya’s added more plants to her collection, but everything else seems to look the same – the stack of books that miraculously hasn’t fallen over yet, the vintage record player sitting beside the couch. Like the first time she was here, the curtains have been parted, but now she sees wispy clouds against smears of yellow, and she’s glad their conversation will be bathed in streams of golden light. It feels fitting, and almost like a blessing from above, the same way their first kiss was: the gentle rain a cleansing of sins, a blank slate for both.

She stops in the living room as Maya drifts into the kitchen, already flitting around the cupboards. There’s a practiced ease to her movements that Lola can’t help but study as she sinks into the couch, hyper focused on Maya’s sweater riding up when she stretches to rifle above the sink, exposing the edge of her tattoo. It’s such a domestic sight that Lola has to squeeze her eyes shut before she can do something incredibly stupid like _propose_ , but not looking grants her brain the permission it apparently needs to envision those forbidden thoughts anyways. Suddenly all she sees are images of how a night like this could play out in a few months’ time: the two of them cooking together, dancing whilst they wait, complaining about the other’s taste in music. She can practically _feel_ the ghost of Maya’s scar underneath her palm, the sturdiness of her shoulder as Lola comes up from behind to hold her, to distract her from her work.

(She’s too caught up in the fantasy to notice how fond the real Maya’s expression is.)

“Would you like something to drink?”

Lola’s eyes snap open, and it takes a second to refocus. The casual way Maya leans against the counter doesn’t help. “Water’s fine, thank you.”

There’s comfortable silence as Maya fetches a glass, but she pauses when reaching for the tap. She smiles apologetically. “Sorry that I called myself your girlfriend earlier.”

Lola cocks her head. “Is that not what you are?”

“We’ve never really labelled it,” Maya begins, but cuts herself off again. The sound of running water fills the apartment, and Lola thinks that for all their similarities – addiction, loneliness, fucked up family dynamics – there’s a world of differences, too. Lola’s the rush-in, impulsive type. Maya clearly likes to deliberate. It’ll take some getting used to, but Lola doesn’t mind; already she finds comfort in being allowed time and space to process things, and if she could spend an entire day doing nothing but silently bask in Maya’s eternal glow, she absolutely would.

And what Maya said wasn’t wrong, anyways: they jumped from a mutual love confession to kissing in the rain and then sleeping together in less than an hour. Lola doesn’t regret the pacing of their relationship, especially not after weeks of flirting (Maya) and pining (Lola), but she thinks it’d be wise to take a different approach this time around, even more so with her upcoming hospital stay. Speaking of –

“Let’s do it now.”

Maya noticeably perks up as she walks over to the couch. Their fingertips meet again when she passes the now-full glass to Lola, and it’s like lightning, a thousand tiny electrical currents buzzing under her skin.

It’s intense, but Lola tries her best to maintain eye contact as she drinks. Maya rises to the challenge and doesn’t blink _once_ , not even when she re-arranges herself to sit cross-legged. It makes her look – _cute_ , if Lola had to pick just one word; inside the apartment, everything seems softer and smaller, and Maya is no exception. When she quirks her mouth up in her patented half-smirk, Lola darts forward to press a kiss to the single mole on her chin. Maya works quickly, setting the glass down before Lola can register what’s happening, and then circling her wrists to draw them together into a proper kiss.

That night in the rain, and earlier at the grocery store – those kisses felt desperate and wild, as if they couldn’t bear to stop for even a millisecond. That’s not to say they were _bad_ , because they couldn’t have been further from that; Lola’s heart still beats erratically when she thinks about how tightly she gripped Maya’s rain-splattered sweater, of how quick Maya was to jump up and meet her halfway over the counter.

But this is slow, almost lazy. Like it’s more about savoring the energy passing between them than a fervent need to touch. Like they’re kissing not to prove something, but to _feel_ something, simply because they can, because it’s allowed.

(Because they’re dating. Because they’re _girlfriends_.)

As if she’s just read Lola’s mind – and Lola would _not_ be surprised if she magically could – Maya scoots back, grinning. “You said you wanted to label this?”

Still a little bit dazed, Lola nods. “I do. I meant what I said about not knowing how to love. I’ve never done this before, but I want to. I want you. I want _us_.”

Maya must sense there’s another _but_ coming, because she offers an encouraging smile. Lola finds strength in her surety and clenches her fists.

“But I’m not sure if we can straight away,” she swallows, “because I’m going to be staying at a hospital soon.”

“A hospital?” Maya raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t seem surprised per se.

“For my addiction,” Lola confirms. “I need help if I want to change.” Which is something she’s always known to be true. Whilst she’d previously resigned herself to a lifetime of solitude, something in her heart had always secretly protested at the thought. She told Maya she didn’t need her or her friends and blamed Daphné for how it all turned out, but knew they were lies before she’d even said them. She wasn’t particularly _social_ , but she needed people, longed for them to understand her and then love her all the same.

And if she wants that, then she knows she needs to seek treatment, or else she’s destined to continuously spiral and push everyone in her orbit away. Professional help won’t mean she’ll never relapse again in the future, because she’ll always be an addict, even if she’s been sober for decades.

But it doesn’t have to be like this either. There _can_ be more than this. There should be.

Maya slides her legs up, palms resting against her knees. “When are you going?”

It’s useless to delay the inevitable. “Next Wednesday, so I understand if you want to wait until I’m out, or,” Lola pauses, “just completely back out now, and not do this at all.”

The room goes still again, but a flare of hope sparks in Lola’s chest when she realizes that despite her silence, Maya hasn’t broken their eye contact. And if Maya won’t look away – from this conversation, this relationship – then Lola certainly isn’t going to either.

After what feels like a century, Maya reaches out and entwines their hands again _(twice in one day,_ Lola thinks, _we’re on a roll)_ and gently tugs Lola towards her. When they settle, they’re facing each other with their legs entangled and knees pressed together. Lola can feel the warmth of Maya’s skin radiating even through the thick fabric of her sweatpants, and those domestic visions from earlier return like a flash: nights on the couch, watching a movie or just lying down together, cuddled up and exchanging secrets.

“What I want,” Maya says slowly, patiently, “is to tell you how proud I am, and how happy I want you to be, more than anything. Because I love you.”

One time in the fifth grade, Lola overheard another girl make fun of a classmate’s recent haircut, so she’d tapped her on the shoulder with a warning that should she say something like that again, Lola would not hesitate to _make it her business._ The girl, who easily had about twenty pounds on Lola, also did not hesitate: she spun around and punched her in the gut. When Thierry arrived to pick her up, he found Lola clutching her stomach, still gasping for air thirty minutes later.

It's the first thing that pops into her brain now. Every inch of air in Lola’s lungs disappears just as quickly, because Maya’s words are their own genre of gut-punch.

(And maybe one day she won’t automatically think of _violence_ when she thinks of _love_. Maybe they’ll slowly deconstruct those associations together, replace them with something gentler, something they both deserve.)

“You love me?” It’s whispered like it’s sacred, and maybe it is. Lola doesn’t trust her voice to not crack, and she doesn’t want to betray the sanctity of this moment: sitting on a second-hand couch in a small apartment in downtown Paris, where the scent of pine hangs heavy in the air and the fading light splashes everything with gold. She feels holy.

When Maya leans in to tuck stray hair behind Lola’s ear, Lola automatically holds her wrist there. It’s a firm grip, like she’s afraid loosening her fist will allow Maya to slip away. It means Maya can do little else but trail her hand down and trace the swell of Lola’s cheek, cool fingers sweeping over spots of pink. “I love you,” Maya says evenly. “I’m in love with you. Sometimes it feels like I always have been.”

Lola closes her eyes again, but she can feel Maya’s thumb running over her bottom lip. She presses a kiss to her fingertips, and it’s like they’re intimately connected in an entirely new way. Even more so than when they slept together, because now they’re on the same page, driving towards the same destination, and the poetic side of Lola shivers at the idea that Maya’s hand placement means she is literally _giving_ her, feeding her these words.

“How long?” Lola asks, because surely _not_ during their community service era. Surely all that tension between them was fueled by Maya simply being bored enough to flirt with the new girl. Not anything serious. Not –

“Fuck, when I first saw you on the stairs,” Maya shakes her head, carding a hand through her hair like she can’t quite believe it either.

Laughter ripples in the air. “I called you Greta Thunberg.”

“Don’t worry, I took it as a compliment,” Maya assures. “Anyways, I thought you were _homophobic_.”

“Oh, I am,” Lola says dryly.

Their laughter peters off into twin soft smiles, and cozy silence soon settles around them again. Lola recalls the morning after her first urbex party, sitting in the dawn opposite Maya and feeling so warm despite the crisp air, despite the little voice inside telling her to _run_.

“The hospital…” Maya says quietly, and Lola looks up to see her frowning. “Is that where you met that guy?”

It’s not that she’s intentionally avoided thinking about Aymeric – she hasn’t, really, because there’s been a few moments of desperation where her thumb hovers over a green call button, and sheer wretched determination is the only thing preventing her from pressing down. But she hasn’t really thought of _that night_ specifically since she woke up in Lucas and Eliott’s bed and realized the position she’d landed herself in. Eliott’s still technically the only person with an inkling of an idea as to what occurred in that hotel room before he’d stormed in, but they obviously haven’t discussed it either.

The ghost of him lingers. It’s a heavy haunting, one that feels at times inescapable. She doesn’t know how to tell anyone the full story, that it wasn’t _just_ a junkie meetup, and a tiny but nonetheless loud fraction of her heart aches at the possibility of her father – or worse, her sister – implying she thus deserved it. That they’re not surprised at all, because they’d already expected her to have fallen that low.

It’s how _she_ already feels, but to have it cemented by someone else might genuinely put her back at the top of that tower, mentally if not physically, so she’s subsequently blocked out specific details from that night: the classical music, her fear of the bathroom door splintering under his fists, the bruise on her lower back.

She came here knowing their conversation wouldn’t necessarily be all sunshine and rainbows, but she won’t be divulging those memories to Maya either. Not yet, not tonight. Soon, one day after the hospital maybe, when she’s equipped with the right terminology and a better understanding of what happened. When she feels more secure in their relationship, but more importantly: more secure in _herself_.

Anyways, one of her favorite things about _them_ has always been the distinct lack of pressure. That Maya could openly flirt and make her intentions obvious from day one without Lola feeling backed into a corner is – nice. Which is maybe also the weirdest way to describe it, but everything about their dynamic evokes that gentle sentiment inside of her, and as someone who isn’t yet completely convinced that she can love or be loved, it’s the simplest word choice she can find for the eruption of newfound emotions she’s experienced since meeting Maya.

(The solution? She and Maya will just have to invent their own language.)

Given that it’s never felt like there was a silent expectation for sex underlining every interaction, or that Maya was only ever in it for the thrill of the chase, she doesn’t feel guilty about her lack of Aymeric-related confessions; she knows Maya isn’t going to push her into revealing anything until she’s ready to. When she is, they’ll go from there. Together.

Right now, Lola finds herself more concerned with the fact that Maya has apparently held onto specific details of a conversation from weeks ago. A flutter of hope cascades once more beneath her sternum.

“You remembered that?” Lola asks, because she needs her suspicions to be verbally confirmed.

Maya nods. “Of course.”

Suddenly, Lola wants this more than she’s ever wanted anything else. She wasn’t lying when she told Eliott that she’s never done this before. Having had zero prior experiences means she doesn’t know what love is, not _exactly_ , but she thinks it must be something close to this: to remember, and to understand, and to channel both of those into the tenderness you feel for another.

She knows it’s unlikely she’ll run in to Aymeric again at the hospital. His family come from old money; there’s a reputation to maintain after all. They’ll have stuck him in a new hospital if he isn’t currently creeping in the shadows of some seedy club with a tendency to ignore blatantly underage patrons. But it’s what he represents that strikes fear: even in a place entirely dedicated to helping her change for the better, danger still lurks around every corner.

She hasn’t voiced these concerns to her father yet. Not when things are so tentative as is.

(Not when he should have already known why she was so reluctant to return to the hospital in the first place.)

And maybe Maya, like Thierry, doesn’t understand addiction firsthand, but she certainly knows what it’s like to feel unsafe in a place designed for the opposite. It was literally her foster family’s job to look after her, and yet they still refused to accept every single part of her. They _chose_ her, and then chose to cast her away after she came out.

Maya remembered Aymeric, and she understands Lola’s fears, and Lola wants nothing more than to have this forever. Which is a long stretch of time. Weeks ago, even, the thought of anything lasting _forever_ would have simultaneously terrified and exhausted her to merely think about.

But not now. Not when she knows what this feels like. Forever is no longer a looming and heavy mass of existence, something to endure. Now, it’s maybe not even _enough_ time. She thinks if she could go toe-to-toe with the universe, fight against physics and humanity for more than her fair share of seconds and minutes and hours, just so nothing could ever pull her away from this moment, this apartment, this _girl_ – she would.

“He won’t be there, but I won’t let him or anyone else stop me,” Lola says, determined.

Maya smiles like not she’s not necessarily shocked to hear it, but is proud nonetheless. She smooths her thumb over Lola’s knuckles. “That’s my girl.”

“Your girl?”

“If you want to be.”

“I do.”

 _“I do_ ,” Maya mocks gently, but any trace of faux snark is immediately washed away by the smile she doesn’t even bother to fight off her face. (Lola also wonders if she’s able to be snarky in general. It’s another thing she appreciates – _loves_ – about Maya: she’s firm, and she’s not afraid to throw things back at Lola when the situation demands, but she’s never, ever _mean_.)

Lola leans in again, resting their foreheads together. She picks up on the scent of kiwi shower gel, hears the quiet brush of eyelashes when Maya blinks. If she concentrates hard enough, she can feel Maya’s heartbeat like it’s her own: two steady patterns pumping _yoursyoursyoursyours_ over and over in sync.

“I’ll wait for you,” Maya whispers. “But I don’t think it’s waiting. It’s just…different.”

“Different,” Lola huffs, not unkindly. “Everything with you is like that.”

Maya smiles. “Me too. I mean, I’ve been with a lot of women, but,” she rolls her eyes, “ _my addiction_. I shouldn’t have called you that. I’m sorry.”

Lola shakes her head. Truthfully, it’s not something she’s thought about. When she recalls that night – and she hasn’t lately, not after their break-up, the reminder of everything lost too painful – she pictures rain and heat and bright lights. The overwhelming rush of being wanted, and the scrambling desperation to ensure she held onto that feeling and didn’t let it slip through her fingers.

But she hasn’t put much weight into Maya’s specific words before. “It’s okay.”

This time, Maya shakes her head. “It wasn’t, and I know better. Maybe more than anyone.” She inhales. “But the meaning is still…true.”

“The meaning?”

“I’ve been with a lot of women,” Maya repeats slowly. “But nothing has ever felt like this. Nobody has ever come close to you. I knew that when you came down those stairs.”

Lola sucks in a breath. It’s like Maya’s making up for all those times she fell silent in response to Lola pouring her heart out. She feels deliriously dizzy, almost, the way you do after stumbling off a ride at an amusement park: the world’s all blurry, your ears are ringing, and you’re running back to join the queue again.

“I was so…grumpy.”

“Mmm. And all I wanted to do was kiss you. Make you smile.” As if just realizing she can now do both of those, Maya leans in close, bumping their noses together. Lola eagerly closes the gap.

When they disconnect, Maya’s expression has hardened slightly, but she eases her thumb across Lola’s frown lines, silently assuaging the automatic panic she knows is welling up in Lola’s throat.

“I also want to tell you about my parents.”

Lola tamps down the urge to laugh. She thought _she_ was the one who’d be divulging parental trauma tonight. When it’s obvious that Maya’s waiting for a sign to continue, she smiles.

“You remember what you said about me ending up like my mother?” Maya prompts.

Lola feels her stomach tighten, but not in the way she’s used to with Maya. Usually it’s more of an exhilarating coiling sensation, like at any second her body’s going to erupt into flames, or butterflies, or sometimes – such as during the hours following their first kiss – both.

This is closer to fear. She knows what she said, what she threw back at Maya in a desperate attempt to cut any strings between them. _Push her away so she can’t inevitably do the same to you._ It’s a reason, not an excuse, and she needs Maya to understand that.

“I’m sorry. I can’t say I didn’t mean it, because I did, but I’m sorry for how hurtful it was. I shouldn’t have brought it up like that,” she winces. “I thought hurting you then would be better for you in the long run. Save you a lot of pain. But it wasn’t me for to decide that.”

“No, it wasn’t, but I understand,” Maya starts. “Because I don’t want to end up like my mother either. But you…let me tell you something about my dad, okay?”

And all Lola can do is nod.

“My father wasn’t nice when he was drunk, and he was pretty much always drunk, so.” Maya breaks off into quiet, nervous laughter, eyes trained on the ceiling. Nothing’s funny, and the words remind Lola of something she once said to Maya in a shadowy bar with terrible rap music.

_(I don’t want to talk to you if you’re drunk._

_You’re in for a long wait.)_

Her stomach clenches again, but she perseveres and tries to chase Maya’s gaze. When their eyes finally lock, she nods and smiles. It’s only small, but she hopes it’s reassuring – this is an important conversation, and one she knows she needs to hear.

“He yelled a lot. Used to make my mother feel bad about everything. He didn’t do it as much with me. I was so, uh,” she hesitates, waving her hands as she searches for the right word. “ _Small_. My therapist told me that all the time. _You were only a child._ He probably felt guiltier.” She exhales shakily. “I think that’s why I tried so hard to help him, because I thought I was the only one who could. Because sometimes he’d buy me nice things, or pick me up and spin me around. I felt like I was flying, and all I wanted was to help him fly too.”

Maya closes her eyes for what feels like an eternity. When they reopen, they’re glassy with unshed tears. She blinks them away. “And then when I obviously didn’t…”

Stilted silence permeates the room, and this time, Maya lets a few fall. Lola extends a hand, splays her fingers against Maya’s collarbones. _I am here_. _You have all the time in the world._

“I didn’t have to stay at a hospital like yours, but I had a social worker, and there was a _lot_ of talking. Watching your parents die isn’t fun.”

Lola knows that Maya witnessed her parents’ deaths. She’s been aware of the logistics of the car accident for a while, understood why it’s played such an important role in their own story.

Yet something heavy still solidifies in Lola’s gut upon hearing Maya say it so bluntly now, because it’s never really hit her before how _lonely_ it would’ve been. Tragic, terrible, scary? Of course. But in the months since they’ve met, Maya has always seemed so well-adjusted and warm, that the loneliness aspect wasn’t even something Lola realized she needed to consider. How could Maya be lonely, when she’s surrounded by a family of her own choosing, whereas Lola has felt so disconnected from the blood kin she does have?

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she squeezes Maya’s shoulder. _I am here_ , _and I want to always be._

“I don’t have any uncles or aunts and my grandparents live in Japan, so fostering was the best option. That was maybe the most traumatic part, the constant changing. It felt like I could never relax. What was the point of settling down when I knew I’d be whisked away months later?”

It’s a question without an answer, but it’s an answer Lola already knows well enough.

“We’re quite alike, aren’t we? Maybe you don’t think so. I’ve never taken drugs before, and I never will. I don’t know what that’s like. But I know what it means to feel like running is all you can do, even if you wish otherwise.” Maya smiles sadly. “Desperately so.”

There’s a lengthy pause, but Lola doesn’t speak; she’s trying her best to absorb every syllable of Maya’s words, let them sink in and take root around her heart, and it feels like Maya’s leading up to something anyways.

“I’m not going to run anymore, but I’m not going to be my mother. Because you’re not going to be your mother, or my father, either. We are _not_ our parents.” The conviction in Maya’s voice causes Lola to snap up. From any other person, Maya’s tone would probably come across as harsh or forceful, but when their eyes meet, Lola sees that all of Maya’s earlier tears are gone, and her face is free from judgement. All that remains is genuine faith, and trust, and love.

“I’m not saying you’re perfect, that you won’t relapse again or say mean things. But we’re not our parents, okay? I have to believe that. I hope you do, too.”

The first time Lola tried alcohol, she was eleven, and her mother had offered a small sip from her champagne flute at the Lecomte’s New Year’s Eve gathering. She and Daphné were supposed to be asleep at that point, but the celebrations had made their parents lax, and one mouthful turned into three, four, five. Lola welcomed January in by lying on top of her sheets, seemingly frozen in delight, hallucinating a ceiling of sparkling stars whilst everyone else gasped over the outside fireworks display.

An entire universe in her eyesight, merely a stretched-out hand away.

And all she had to do was drink.

She started self-harming at thirteen, barely resisting the urge to write her mother’s name into her skin: a permanent reminder of who she felt should be credited for putting her in such a position. She’s unsure, even now, whether or not that’s actually a fair judgement, because like with Thierry earlier, one thought inevitably spirals into another, and thinking about _this_ also means thinking about the thickness of blood, and pre-determined action, and how her mother’s breath reeked of vodka the morning Lola was carted off to the hospital.

( _I’m drinking because of you, and you’re drinking because of me_ , she thinks, but doesn’t know whether the voice belongs to mother or daughter.)

So instead she thinks of Maya’s quiet insistence otherwise when Lola labelled herself toxic. She hears Sekou, outside the underground tunnels, deleting Tiff’s account: _maybe_ _you’re just a good person._ She even considers what Tiff said the other day, after the meeting with their principal. _We could’ve been friends,_ but all Lola could think was, _no, we never could._

“I don’t want to run,” Maya repeats. She sounds confident, but there’s an edge of stress present too, like nothing is more impertinent than Lola understanding how much emphasis she’s placing on these specific words, and why. This, Lola believes, might mean more than any declaration of love that Maya offers.

 _I know, and I understand_ is what she channels into the kiss that follows. When Maya’s fingertips softly tap at the back of her neck as their mouths move in sync, she thinks Maya’s saying the same thing too.

“You ran, and I ran, and we ended up here anyway,” Lola whispers. “I’m sorry I wasted so much time.”

“No,” Maya says firmly. “We can’t change anything, alright? We can only keep waking up and trying to do better.” She smiles self-deprecatingly, but there’s a youthful lightness around her eyes that Lola itches to photograph. “Besides, it’s a hard habit to break. And sometimes it makes you do dumb things. What do you think Char was?”

“I _thought_ Char was a bitch.”

Maya laughs, clear and striking. “Yeah, not my best moment. She was pretty much the first single lesbian I could find. Shit, her friends were _awful_.”

(Lola worries her bottom lip between her teeth to prevent from looking too smug; up this close, it’d be obvious what she’s really thinking, and vindication tastes bittersweet.)

“Hard to believe that someone like Char would keep terrible company,” she drawls instead.

Maya gently pinches Lola’s knee in mock chastise. “I suppose not all of us can have friends that talk shit about your date when she goes to get drinks.”

On the surface, Maya’s teasing lilt is obvious, but the words nonetheless reverberate across Lola’s chest. Maya has La Mif. She lost her family but gained a new one; a better one even, maybe. All by herself, she carved out a space in a world that condemned her to loneliness and suffering and pain – and she said no. She refused, and she let people into that bubble, and together they built something new and true.

“You’re very lucky to have them,” Lola says gravely.

“You have them too, you know that, right? Fuck, _that_ night?” Maya asks, and Lola doesn’t need to request clarification to know which night she’s referring to. She nods.

Maya swears under her breath, shakes her head. “Sekou managed to pinpoint the location of almost every photo you’d posted. He would’ve found that tower too, but you deleted your account before he could, so they searched by memory, association. Like, _we know she hangs out here, so what’s the next closest abandoned building._ I’ve never seen Jo that frantic before.” A beat. “They were as worried as I was.”

“Even Max?” Lola asks incredulously. It’s what she chooses to focus on, because Maya summarizing all that effort and dedication in such a casual way is overwhelming, and Lola’s racing mind has neither the time nor energy currently to parse through it all and understand what it means for her.

“ _Especially_ Max,” Maya confirms. “He knows who you are to me.”

“And who would that be?”

“Someone I care about. Someone I love. Someone I want to let in. Someone to run to, not away from.” Maya smiles, almost uncharacteristically shy. “If she lets me.”

Laughter, melodic and effusive, bursts from the center of Lola’s chest, because she thinks there is little that Maya could ask of her that she’d refuse. She knows what it’s like to need the reassurance, however, so she swallows down the urge to ask _can i get back to you on that soon?_ – she’s sure Maya’s laugh would rival hers, and she’d normally find any excuse to hear it, but she’ll just have to make up for it later. They have time, after all.

Instead, she leans in and holds both of Maya’s cheeks in her palms. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Maya frowns. “Can you say that again? I’m not sure I heard you.”

This time, Lola thinks her heart really does crack open, golden light splitting the seams of muscle and dancing down her bloodstream; if she looked at a mirror right now, she knows she’d be glowing a color only she and Maya recognize.

 _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,_ she whispers in between a string of quick kisses. She also thinks it, envisions the words as physical objects, traces them into the patch of skin under Maya’s ear, and attempts telepathic communication – she wants every base covered, just in case.

“You know, that’s why I got my tattoo,” Maya says after they break apart. “Scars fade, but ink doesn’t, and I wanted to commit fully to survival and strength. Wind kills dandelion flowers, but it also spreads their seeds. They die and get reborn every single day.” The _like we do_ goes unspoken.

“I’ve been thinking of getting one too. I just need,” Lola hums, counting on her fingers, “money, time, a design, and for my Dad to not kill me when he finds out.”

Lola’s expecting Maya to wink and offer a hand to squeeze when she gets it done, or maybe even an offer to speak with Thierry directly; _Ironically, I’m good with parents_ , she hears Maya’s voice echo in her head, and Lola would scoff and say _I’m not_ , and then in an effort to test the waters of what is and isn’t okay to joke about, she’d wait for Maya to follow up with the obligatory _I guess you fell in love with the right person, hmm?_

But no boundary-pushing comment comes. Instead, she finds that her girlfriend has immediately startled, and is craning her neck to look at the kitchen clock. Predictably, it’s shaped like a tree. “Your father! Do you need to go back home soon? We could take an Uber together.” Stress lines appear almost immediately on Maya’s forehead, but before Lola can kiss them away, a memory stirs in her mind.

“Wait, is that how you brought me back here, that night at the club?”

“Oh!” Maya laughs, ducking her head. “No, we walked.”

“The _whole_ way?” Lola’s eyebrows knit together. She hasn’t returned to _that_ specific club since, and most of the night is a disjointed haze of neon lights and pounding music, but she knows it’s far from her own place, which means it’s even further from here.

“Like I said. I’m glad you called me.” The casual shrug of Maya’s shoulder is so effortlessly cool, calm, and Lola knows it shouldn’t be affecting her as much as it does. But oh, it does.

“I brought a bag,” she swallows. “I don’t need to go home tonight.”

“Funny. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Their eyes linger on each other for twenty seconds or twenty years, Lola doesn’t know for sure. She feels unsure of a lot of things, actually: she came here tonight to say her piece, and will now be leaving tomorrow morning with more under her belt than she ever dared to hope for, let alone believe was possible for someone like her to have.

She’s apologized, told Maya she was in love with her, discovered the feeling is very much mutual. They’re making this – _them_ – official, and Maya will wait for her. Or it isn’t waiting, as Maya said: it’ll just be a different kind of dating. They can write letters, and Lola will dedicate a chunk of her allotted monthly monitored phone-call purely to hear Maya recount tales of the supermarket and La Mif that make her laugh and tear up in equal amounts. Already it reminds Lola of the noir films Daphné favored as a kid, the same ones Eliott is always forcing on her at the shop. Old-timey and romantic, filled with yearning and lost love, except theirs won’t be lost. It’ll just be love.

But that’s all sorted, and now it’s late, and Lola doesn’t know what comes next. What to say and where to look. Where she should place her hands.

Distantly, she recalls the poem Maya recited during their first and only date, the infamous night of almost-holding-hands. Their pinkies had inched closer where they rested on the park bench, and Maya, staring at the shimmering sky, had spoken, her voice as resolute as ever.

_What am I, if not yours?_

_What do I do with my hands, when they are just hands?_

She hadn’t known how to react in the silence that followed, except to curl her hand into a fist and blink. Maya had turned with a smile anyways, moving to swipe her thumb across Lola’s bottom lip. _Gelato_ , she’d explained, but Lola thinks it was just an excuse to kiss, as Maya had then done. No complaints came from Lola’s end.

She doesn’t know how to react now either, finds herself just as speechless, but looking at the dust motes floating through the apartment, the rise and fall of Maya’s chest, and the gentle rustle of the potted plants in the dying wind, it suddenly hits her: she doesn’t need a plan. She doesn’t _need_ to do anything.

She can just be.

“I’ll get changed,” she says slowly, and Maya nods. It’s not that she thinks Maya’s suddenly going to find her body repulsive, but old habits die hard, and not two months ago, the only people to see her bare were drunk strangers who’d forget what she looked like when they woke to empty sheets and stale breath.

The trip to Maya’s bedroom is short; it’s the third time she’s walked this path, and there’s a rising giddiness in her stomach at the thought of new things with Maya one day becoming familiar. It’s still also a little terrifying – the idea that letting people in will inevitably lead to heartbreak feels ingrained, deeply so – but she’s able to temporarily push those doubts from her mind when she hears the tell-tale sound of a record scratch, followed by the opening notes of a Fleetwood Mac song. _Dreams,_ Lola guesses, or maybe _Landslide._ She usually sticks to bubble-gum pop, and it’s been a long time since a Lecomte family road trip occurred, Thierry or her mother always in charge of the music for the drive back.

Either way, it’s relaxing and homely, made even more so by the quiet humming Lola can just barely make out over the sound of a cup being rinsed and packed away. She can’t help the way her cheeks immediately flush when she _does_ decipher the lyrics Maya keeps mumbling as she eventually walks down the hallway, towards her room.

_(Sweet, wonderful you / You make me happy with the things you do / Oh, can it be so? This feeling follows me wherever I go / You, you make loving fun)_

Her girlfriend mirrors this reaction when she steps through the door and registers what Lola’s changed into: ankle socks, a pair of navy shorts, and a regular old t-shirt. Except –

Maya reaches out to run a fingertip over the fabric where Lola’s collarbones lie; when she skates her hand up and gently scrapes a nail against the side of her neck, Lola shivers. It’s involuntary, like most of her body’s reactions to this girl: the half-smirk when Maya pushed back during community service, the lip-bites in the early dawn following Lola’s first introduction to the world of urbex.

“You kept my shirt.” Maya’s words are like syrup: slow, sweet, enticing, and drizzling with the promise of something else. Something more.

Lola gazes down at said shirt. “I did,” she murmurs, but by the time her eyes flick back up, all traces of that something more have vanished from Maya’s face, only to be replaced with an extreme tenderness.

“You kill me,” she whispers, and draws Lola into her arms.

They tussle, but it’s not violent; they merely fall to the bed as one mass, giggling and gasping when elbows knock into stomachs and legs entangle. When Maya crawls out to get changed into her own sleepwear (boxers, singlet, socks), Lola takes the opportunity to scoot under the covers, sun-warmed from the open window and smelling distinctly like something woodsy, something tropical. Her girlfriend, it seems, is the sole reason the natural-scented shower supplies industry is even still running in France.

Lola would say that out loud, except she doesn’t want Maya to think she hates the smell (she doesn’t, she _really_ doesn’t, already forming plans to steal more clothes purely so she can be comforted by Maya’s scent during her worst nights at the hospital), and she’s distracted by the door being shut anyway. Christine McVie’s vocals become distant and dull, but Maya doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Shouldn’t you turn that off?” Lola asks, as Maya’s knees bump against the edge of the bed.

Maya shrugs again, knocking hair over her bare shoulders. “I fall asleep to it every night.”

“Must go through a lot of batteries. You get an employee discount or something?”

“Batteries?” Maya arches an eyebrow. “It runs on sunlight.”

 _Of course_ , Lola thinks fondly, and says as much. Before Maya can protest or begin an impassioned rant about which chemicals harm the environment, Lola reaches to grip her biceps, tugging her down onto the bed and into the small alcove of warmth she’s fostered whilst waiting.

Despite being in the midst of summer, July’s scorch has yet to arrive, with the city spending the past few weeks desperately grasping at the tail-end of spring’s final breeze. Bundling up in layers will leave them stifled and sweaty in the morning, but holding each other like this should be fine, and Lola fully intends to take advantage of that whilst she still can.

When they settle on their sides, heads sharing a pillow, everything clicks into place. It feels right. Balanced. And yet –

Maya’s hand naturally gravitates to rest over the curve of Lola’s hip, the same way it did three weeks ago when they collapsed together in a hazy pink afterglow. Lola doesn’t think that’s on tonight’s agenda, nor would Maya ever force it to be, but there’s a line of anxiety threading in her stomach regardless at the thought of Maya gradually growing bored with nothing but peaceful silence at night, especially with the not-waiting of the next few months close by – and then the probable period of awkwardness once she’s been released and still feeling raw in her own body.

She’s never had a fantastic poker face, her heart too full of fire and gasoline to perfect the art of neutrality even when feeling otherwise, and Maya’s eyes brim with concern.

“You okay?”

“Can we just sleep? Tonight?” The questions leave her lips before Maya’s even finished hers, and Lola internally cringes. _Selfish, useless, selfish,_ her brain helpfully supplies, and she fights the desire to cry: she’s trying _so_ hard not to fuck this up, wants nothing more than to stay in this moment, where everything is – was – going so well. Going perfectly even, before she ruined it. Soon enough, she knows, this sudden sadness will give way to boiling anger, and yet another wave of self-hate crashes around in her gut. Why can’t she just be _normal?_

The steady and deliberate movement of a hand trailing from hip to chest slowly grounds her. It’s a mirror of what Lola was doing earlier with Maya – she felt clumsy then, frustratingly out of her depth and obviously lacking experience, but she _wanted_ to do it anyways. She wanted, more than anything else in that moment, to be the one Maya could lean on, could trust with her heart. If not forever, at least for a second.

So another realization hits her, this time bringing with it a rush of calm: Maya _wants_ to be here, because if she didn’t, she wouldn’t.

“All we need to do is breathe, okay?” Her voice pierces through the manic fog in Lola’s brain, crisp and clear and so, _so_ kind still, that Lola – who against better judgement would probably follow this girl to the ends of the Earth – does.

Inhale, exhale. When her eyes finally shudder open, she finds Maya following the same breathing pattern, and it’s anchoring. Outside, the sky has darkened considerably, rays of honey gold dwindling into bright streams of moonlight that illuminate Maya’s cheekbones.

“I love you,” Maya whispers, no less sure than she was earlier. The spill of light reaches the side of her nose when she talks, occasionally dipping down to her lips, and Lola wants to know what it feels like to kiss the moon.

(She has already kissed the sun. Many, many times.)

“I want to make you so happy,” Maya continues, and it’s the last part that gives her pause, breaks her from thought. An echo of what Maya had said during her first confession – _I want you to be happy_ – but now the emphasis is on the personal, on what Maya wants to do herself.

Happiness has long been a foreign concept: something familiar, but not yet learned. By her own definition, Lola loves Maya, and if she trusts Maya’s word, then Maya loves her too – but as just evidenced, trauma buries itself deep, it’s poison unrelenting.

So she might not be able to love or be loved _long-term_ , but she can be happy. She _has_ been happy. Maybe not consistently, or for extended periods of time, and maybe her experiences with ‘happy’ differ greatly from other people’s definitions. But there’s nonetheless a warm satisfaction, a spreading glow, when she’s around Maya and La Mif and, as of late, her sister.

“You already do,” Lola says. Her voice is almost fragile, but the words are confident, sure. She brushes a loose curl of hair behind Maya’s ear – a lone black strand, the rich purple dye already fading to pale lavender. Wondering what Maya’s hair is going to look like by the time she exits the hospital, Lola tugs on the strand as gently as she can, guiding them together until their noses rub, the moonlight drenching them both. They’re silent for a moment, breathing in each other’s air, when Lola notices three specks of gold swirling in Maya’s eyes. She’s not sure if they’re truly there or whether she’s simply hallucinating, because this moment is trance-like.

The last time she felt like they were locked in a trance, existing on a realm of entirely theirs alone – before the supermarket kiss, that is – was the night they filmed Lux & Obscurus.

 _I’ve been alone for years_ , she’d said, the bright lights, stormy weather, and Eliott all vanishing before her, until the only discernible element remaining was Maya: steady gaze, encouraging smile, rain-matted hair that Lola wanted to bury her fingers in. The memories serve as a reminder that she has one more thing to ask.

“Eliott’s premiering the movie on Friday. He wants you to come.”

“ _Eliott_ does, hmm?”

Lola rolls her eyes, but it’s barely even a roll. It’s more of a half-blink upwards motion, because most of her energy is spent struggling not to smile. “Maybe I want you there too.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Maya pretends to think hard for a second. “I suppose,” she says finally, “that you’ll need someone to hold your hand during the scary parts. I accept.”

“The _scary_ parts?” Lola studied that script for hours, put more effort into learning her lines than she has with any school project in years. She worries, for a second, that she’s fallen prey to early onset dementia, because she _knows_ there was nothing in the film that would even threaten a PG-13 rating.

Maya leans in close, like she’s about to reveal a state secret. Lola feels that she is. “Eliott’s acting,” she whispers seriously. “Truly awful. He has nothing on you.”

Lola’s jaw aches from smiling so hard. She doesn’t understand how it’s possible to understand someone on such a deep level but simultaneously know next to nothing about them. Maya doesn’t know her favorite color, they’ve never extensively discussed their childhoods, but they somehow just _get_ each other anyways: Maya always seems to realize when Lola needs tension to be broken with laughter, or when the conversation should be reigned back into a more somber tone.

Demonstrating exactly that ability, Maya bumps her nose against Lola’s, dragging her from her thoughts. “My movie star,” she murmurs, dropping a kiss to the corner of Lola’s mouth, soft warmth lingering long after she pulls back.

 _My movie star_ , Lola repeats mentally, because there’s something to be said about someone taking ownership of you. The idea of being Maya’s and Maya being hers fills her with a sense of pride, one that’s both new and familiar, all at once. It’s not possessive, she doesn’t think. It’s just nice to belong, and to know that there’s people out there who will happily claim you as theirs: _My movie star. My girlfriend. My friend. My sister. My daughter._

“What does that make you, then?”

“Your arm candy,” Maya says, her face devoid of emotion. It lasts maybe two seconds before she cracks, mouth twisting and cheeks tinged with pink.

“I’ll take you to every red carpet,” Lola nods, just as seriously, but she too soon loses herself to quiet laughter.

Maya hums thoughtfully. “Perfect place to stage a giant climate change protest.”

“I guess I have a lot of those in my future now.”

“Among many other things,” Maya says delicately, and Lola knows she’s not just referring to herself or their relationship. The moon must be passing through a thick mass of cloud, because the room slides into darkness. It’s practically pitch-black, but Maya’s eyes continue to gleam, clear and brilliant and unwavering.

And Lola feels seen.

 _Light and dark_ , she thinks, reaching out again. When she traces Maya’s jawline, she can’t see anything at first, navigating entirely through touch. In the easy silence that follows, a single sliver of moonbeam soon peers through the window, painting luminescent stripes on her fingers, bleeding into Maya’s skin underneath. _Light and dark. Black and white. Co-existing. Together, in every one of us._

“Looking forward to it all,” Lola eventually replies, because in that moment, nothing else could be truer.

She leans forward. She doesn’t lean back.

* * *

**From:** Maya 🐳 **[11:31am]**

_Did you get home safe ??_

  
  
**To:** Maya 🐳 **[11:31am]**

_still on bus. heavy traffic_

_thanks for breakfast this morning :)_

**From:** Maya 🐳 **[11:32am]**

_Thank you for not burning my kitchen down :)_

**To: Maya** 🐳 **[11:33am]**

 _next time_ 😘

**From:** Maya 🐳 **[11:33am]**

_Wish I was there with you.._

**To:** Maya 🐳 **[11:34am]**

_you really do like making out in public places huh? lol_

**From:** Maya 🐳 **[11:35am]**

_Maybe so..._

_Or maybe I just love you_ 💜

**To:** Maya 🐳 **[11:35am]**

_no i think you just enjoy disrupting society!!_

_changing the world_

_shaking people's lives up_

_i don't mind_

_i love you too_ 💜

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know your thoughts! apologies if anything feels ooc: originally i wasn’t going to have maya say “i love you” because i'm choosing to believe her lack of words in canon = she's emotionally reserved (instead of the writers just not knowing what to do with her), however it annoys me that unless she's a main or there’s a multi-pov episode at the end of the series, we probably won’t see her say it back onscreen, so this is me rectifying that! also because in terms of skamfr's brand of realism, i do think it kinda fits? but if you’re interested in a fic with a more realistic timeline of what a relationship between these two would look like, please read "don't back down, there's nothing left" by @nameless. it has my heart ❤️
> 
> also: i have a dumb headcanon that mayla are both terrible singers, so during the part where maya's humming, please imagine that it's the most offkey, tone deaf thing in history, and that lola absolutely melts when hearing it anyways. that's love i guess!
> 
> sorry again for how long this took.
> 
> works referenced in this fic:
> 
> \- "the clean house" by sarah ruhl  
> \- "sexus" from "the rosy crucifixion" by henry miller  
> \- "the lover as a cult" from "life of the party" by olivia gatwood  
> \- "you make loving fun" by fleetwood mac

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated!


End file.
